Sunday 11th December

161211

PICCADILLY LINE:

The Ratman grins, catching my elbow as I weave along the platform,
looks me in the eye like I know him. Starts a conversation about the
weather, toes in perfection against the yellow line, impish. For a
second I think I recognise a rearranged face whose lips part,
revealing unfamiliar teeth. They dance a rhythm that makes me recoil,
walk away, glancing back, to make sure I’m not being followed, scared.

The Ratwoman stops me at the other end of the platform, dressed in
chamois leather yellow, off the shoulder, two-piece smiles. Wind blows
up the line carrying her perfume, not good, not bad, reminds me of a
building I used to know.

A crowd waits for something to happen. Another slow train.
Another long cold night on the rails.

Listening to Sir Shina Peters & his International Stars

(K)

4 thoughts on “Sunday 11th December

  1. You need one of those
    Push me Pull you things
    that you power yourself
    You could whizz by all the platforms
    People would stand speechless
    Each not knowing if the other had seen you!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s